Laura Caldwell - Red Hot Lies

Fix that to the Logicube, I heard Mayburn say. But then I froze. Where was it supposed to attach? I couldn’t remember. Frantically, I turned the Logicube this way and that, bumbling the hard drive and the Write Blocker in the process, cords twisting everywhere.

“C’mon,” I muttered.

“Izzy?” I heard Lucy’s sweet voice trill from down the hall.

My drumming pulse began beating wildly. I turned the Logicube over and over in my hand. Finally I spotted the open USB port at the bottom right side. It had been covered by a cord. I shoved in the attachment for the external hard drive.

Mayburn insisted that I run a series of checks before I turned on the Logicube, but he was crazy if he thought there was time.

I heard Lucy say again, “Izzy?”

I hit the Power button for the Logicube and watched as the LCD screen came to life. Downloading, it said.

“Yes,” I whispered.

I jumped up from the desk, grabbed my bag and hurried down the hallway, pulling my gloves off and shoving them in my pockets. It would have been helpful if I could have hid the components and the mess I’d made of the laptop, but I had no time. I would have to keep Lucy occupied and away from that part of the house for at least an hour.

She was stepping from the kitchen into the hallway. “Hi,” she said tentatively, her eyes concerned. “You okay?”

I patted my stomach. “Sorry I was gone for so long. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so well.”

“Oh, I hope it wasn’t the sandwiches.”

“No, no. I’ve been feeling off, almost nauseous, for a few days.” This was absolutely true. Since Sam left, nothing in my body felt right.

“You’re not pregnant?” she said jokingly.

“God, I hope not.” The words shot from my mouth, from me and not my cover. There was no way I could fake wanting a pregnancy, even for Mayburn.

She laughed and led the way back into the kitchen. “You and Grady wouldn’t want one of your own?”

“Kaitlyn is handful enough.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “She found the chest with Michael’s Notre Dame memorabilia.”

“Oh, gosh.” I immediately started heading for the basement door.

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously, leave it alone. It’s just T-shirts and posters and stuff.”

“Let me clean it up.” Michael DeSanto didn’t seem the type of guy who you wanted mad, and I knew that Domers (what we in the Midwest called Notre Dame grads and fans) could get pissed off quick if you messed with their school in any way.

“I put the breakable stuff up high.” Lucy waved a kettle. “Are you in for some tea? Would that be good for your stomach?”

“Absolutely.” And hopefully our tea ceremony will last through the downloading of your husband’s hard drive.

Five minutes later, Lucy and I settled onto bar stools at the granite countertop. She had set out small china cups and tiny mint cookies on a china plate. “What else can I get you? How are you feeling?” she kept asking me.

We got talking about Chicago again, and Lucy admitted how lonely she was.

“Michael is great, of course,” she said quickly, giving me the distinct impression that the opposite was true. “But he works a lot and he has a ton of friends here who always want him to golf or do guys’ dinners.”

“What about Bethany?” I remembered her friend from the playground.

“She’s the best.” Lucy sipped her tea, then stared into it with those cornflower-blue eyes, as if trying to glean answers in the tea leaves. “But she works, and so she’s got a lot on her plate. Really, my best friends are my sisters, and we’re on the phone all the time, but I’d just love to be closer. What about your family?”

I decided it would be easier to talk about my real mom and brother, rather than make up some crap. I said that my mother lived in Chicago. I tried not to think about my mom, and her confessions, and my wonderings about whether she’d had anything to do with Forester’s death. I told her how we called my brother Sheets. She laughed, raising her face from her tea and throwing her blond hair back, exposing her white neck. That laugh seemed to ring through the kitchen and maybe the whole house, and in that moment I felt better than I had in weeks.

We talked for about an hour, and I kept thinking that Lucy was the kind of person I would love to be friends with. While our lunch looked like the perfect first meal shared between girlfriends, after her laugh died away, I felt horribly guilty that I was lying to her, that I was there for more than her friendship.

Then a rumbling came from the back of the house.

“What’s that?” I said.

“The garage door,” Lucy said. “Michael’s home early.”

“Michael is home?” I couldn’t help it. My voice came out loud.

I looked at my watch. The download had been going on for fifty-five minutes. Was it enough? And how could I get to the office? I couldn’t very well just sprint from the room without causing her to follow me. And it would take time to get the computer back together. Mayburn said that was the hardest part.

“Yeah, he is.” Lucy bit her lip, then she stood. “It’s great when he’s home. Really.” I don’t know who she was trying to convince, but she wasn’t particularly successful.

She started cleaning up the tea tray and the sweetener. Her gestures had a fast, nervous quality to them.

I stood, trying to figure out what in the hell to do. I was about to claim intestinal difficulties again, when the backdoor of the kitchen opened. And there was Michael DeSanto.

He was dressed in a black suit with a lime-green tie. I was struck by how technically handsome the man was, but how dangerous he felt.

“Hi!” My voice came out like a chirp. “I’m Izzy. We met at Prada last night.” I advanced on him and stuck out my hand, physically blocking his path to his office.

What should I do? What should I do?

“Yeah, sure.” He gave my hand a quick pump, his eyes cold and flat.

As I stood there, dumbfounded, I looked into those eyes and noticed how light they were-brown, certainly, but almost like a brown paper bag, a wet one, bordering on translucent. The effect was spooky, and the proximity of him put my nerves into overdrive.

I wanted to run down the hall, but that would be alarming and he’d follow me. I had to get him out of the house, or keep him away from the office while I got back in there. But there was nothing I could do now that wouldn’t draw attention.

I went back to the stool in front of my tea. After I’d taken a seat, I saw that Lucy was hugging her husband, yet he was staring at me over her shoulder, those light brown eyes examining me in a curious and clinical way.

Michael DeSanto remained quiet as Lucy pulled away and began chattering about the kids and how well they were playing downstairs. He glanced at her and nodded at an occasional thing she was saying, but mostly he was looking at me.

Lucy seemed not to notice. She was anxious and distracted around her husband. She continued to chatter about the kids. She cleaned up the teakettle and the box of cookies.

Michael nodded blandly at her, but he kept staring at me. It was freaking me out.

Finally, he interrupted his wife. “I’ve got to get some work done.” He took a step in the direction of his office.

The pulse in my neck banged so loudly, it was all I could hear in my head. I had to stop him.

I jumped up, blocking his path. “Kaitlyn destroyed some of your Notre Dame stuff,” I blurted. “I’m so sorry.”

I looked at Lucy, whose face had gone scared. “Oh, it’s not that bad-”

“I’m really sorry,” I said, talking over her. “She’s still down there right now. I hope she hasn’t torn up anything else.”